


Blue Hands

by apartment



Series: Below the Wrist [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Apocalypse (2016) - Fandom, X-Men: Days of Future Past, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fix-It, Missing Scenes and Development, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7142843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apartment/pseuds/apartment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCONTINUED -- XMA IS JUST SO PAINFULLY BAD. but this fic follows the movie EXACTLY, so definitely read what's written. you already know the ending.  </p><p>They are sad, they are cold, and they are mutants. En Sabah Nur might think this is all they are, but Charles knows there is warmth in friends, in trust, and in love. An XMA missing scenes and development fic.</p><blockquote>
  <p>The earthquake changes everything.</p>
  <p>In hindsight, Hank will realize that it was Apocalypse who changed everything, but in this moment, being shaken awake by a frantic Jubilee and realizing that the house is groaning, Hank thinks <em>earthquake</em>, and then he thinks <em>Jean</em>.<br/></p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The previous installment is a oneshot about Erik during the 10 year time skip, and I would recommend reading that as a few things have changed from the canon movie. It's all still canon compliant though ;) 
> 
> I’m taking all the scenes from the movie and giving them my own twist. Also, a lot of canon quotes! I’ve pulled some of the dialogue from the movie, so sit back and relax for a full immersion experience. None of my changes will be hard fixes that oppose canon, so rest assured you can headcanon all of this, cause I sure am.

Scott feels confident about the trigonometry test he had taken earlier that day, and he's looking at only two more classes before an easy Friday and weekend. It would be an overall good day, honestly, if it weren’t for now, sitting in History with his dull headache growing more painful every second. Scott grits his teeth and rubs subtly at his temple. He had been able to ignore it before, but now it feels like his eyes are going to burst out of his head.

At the front of the room, Ms. Coleman concludes the Vietnam War unit and reminds the class about the test on Monday, rolling her eyes at her students’ collective groan. “And now,” she says, flicking on the overhead. “Mutants.”

Scott blinks his eyes past the blurriness slowly forming and squints at the projector screen. A clipping from the _Columbus Dispatch_ dated January 1973 reports that “MUTANTS REVEALED! Non-Humans Disrupt Paris Peace”, and Scott immediately thinks of Alex.

Alex has never been a fixture in Scott’s life. By the time Scott was old enough to remember anything about him, Alex was about 25, coming and going—more of ‘going’, honestly—as he pleased. When Scott was 5, Alex shipped off to Vietnam, and it was four years until their family heard from him again, after the mutants had both tried to kill and saved the President and seemingly everyone was glancing suspiciously at their neighbors.

Alex had come home with a few new scars and a bruise on his chin, almost covered by how long his hair had grown. He smiled less and seemed to be out more, shutting down even more than usual when news about mutants was on TV. Soon after, when Scott was nine, Alex declared a weekend camping trip, brought the family out to the woods, took off his shirt, and lit the air around them with a bright red discus of crackling energy. Scott’s mother had cried then, buried her face in her hands and didn’t speak. When their father looked away from Alex and wrapped his wife in an embrace, Scott remembers Alex’s haunted look of disappointment, of hope shattering, but also of wry understanding and resignation.

 _It’s okay_ , Alex had said then. _It’s okay, but I wanted you to at least know. We can leave. Sorry for bringing you out here._ Scott, fearing the tension and dismal atmosphere, had balled up his fists and looked between his older brother and parents.

 _What about camping?_ he asked, and his mother’s head shot up in surprise. Her lip quivered, and she turned to her husband. When he smiled slightly, her mouth pulled into a determined grimace. 

 _We’re going to stay_ , she told Scott, and then turned to Alex. _We’re going to stay_ , she repeated, and Alex started crying.

Scott remembers that weekend as one of the first times he had seen his brother as more than face in pictures he didn’t remember taking or a quick grin across the table at breakfast. The Summers family spent a day and a half at the campsite: hesitant words spoken aloud, questions asked and answered, hugs exchanged, and eyes wiped. By the time they packed the tent, Alex was smiling brighter than when he returned from Vietnam, his arm looped around Scott’s shoulders. ‘Mutant’ developed a new definition that weekend, as did Alex himself. Home more now than before, Alex often spends his evenings in Scott’s room, lounging around while Scott works on homework Alex never had to do.

Ms. Coleman has replaced the first newspaper clipping with one from the _Times_ , and Scott grimaces at the 'PEACE TURNS TO CHAOS!' headline. The world has given mutants like Alex such a hard time; it’s not fair for them to be blamed for defending themselves. It’s frustrates him to no end, and Scott feels a small amount of anger build up, but it all goes to his head.

Then, a sharp pain pricks both of Scott’s eyes at once, and he slams them shut, resisting the urge to rub his eyelids. His eyes itch and burn, like his headache has moved from a throbbing at the back of his skull to full-fledged war at its front. Scott feels his eyes watering and blinks a few times, then repeatedly when it seems to help. 

The pain assuaged for a moment, he realizes what direction he’s staring in only moments before Simmons glares and accuses, “You starin’ at my girl?”

Scott scoffs and turns away, preoccupied with the burning, which is beginning to feel like it’s eating his eyes. “Your girl,” he mutters. “I guess you do look old enough to be her father.”

Scott realizes he can’t see the expression on Simmons’ face, and suddenly, he’s terrified. His eyes hurt, his head hurts, _he can’t see_. There’s something wrong, there’s something seriously wrong.

“Excuse me, gentleman,” Ms. Coleman calls. “Is there something that you’d like to be sharing with the rest of the class?”

“Can I please go to the bathroom?” Scott asks, despaired. He gives into the urge to rub his eyes, and the pressure immediately, but only slightly, lessens the need to scratch his eyes out. If whatever this is doesn’t burn a hole through his skull first, Scott thinks he might just pull his eyes out, himself. “I think there’s something seriously wrong with my eyes.”

Scott guesses he must sound desperate enough, because Ms. Coleman only sighs before replying, “Fine, Scott,” and Scott resists the need to run out of the room while she asks him if he knows the way to the principal’s office.

“Yeah, I do,” he replies to her, grabbing his bag. Ms. Coleman was so unnecessary sometimes, he thinks, irritated, and then flees to the bathroom.

The bell rings a few seconds after Scott leaves, but by the time he’s found his way to the bathroom, the halls have filled. There’s someone—a blurry outline of someone—at the sinks already. Scott leans into his own mirror and opens his eyes wide, blinking them to clarity. He blinks once, twice, again, and then suddenly he sees red. Red. _What?_ Scott blinks again and his eyes are green again.

His reflection stares back at him, wide-eyed and confused, and flinches when the bathroom door swings open. “Summers!” Simmons calls. “I know you’re in here.”

Scott looks around, panicked. He really doesn’t have time for this right now. Scott slips into the nearest bathroom stall and sits down, trembling slightly. His eyes feel like they’re about to explode, and Scott doesn’t even know how he knows that. _Too much time with Alex, maybe,_ he thinks distantly, and presses his knuckles into his eyes.

Simmons jumps up to peek over the stall door, and Scott can hear the surprise in his voice. “Are you crying? I haven’t even kicked your ass yet.” Scott bites back a groan of displeasure as his eyes start protesting the outside pressure of his fingers. “Summers!” Simmons calls again, and that’s all Scott can hear before everything is just _noise_. Simmons is banging on the stall door, but it’s more than that: a ringing in his ears, a thrumming in his head, like lightning flashing forward, like _too much_ , and—

Scott opens his eyes, screaming as the world lights up red. He’s burning, his eyes are burning, he’s on fire, and then he realizes he’s not. It doesn’t actually hurt, and Scott realizes in a split second what’s going on. He’s seen this red before. _Alex_ , he thinks, and then forces his eyes closed, reapplying pressure with the base of his palms.

Scott doesn’t know what happened to Simmons, and he hears broken tile falling from above. He can’t see, he doesn’t want to open his eyes. It’ll happen again, this power he can’t control. His eyes are burning like there is something in them, and Scott knows there is. He’s a mutant.

Scott hears commotion from outside the bathroom and panics. Alex never told him what it was like to manifest. He’s got to get out of here. Scott presses his eyes closed even more, feels along the walls, and runs.

* * *

Warren has been in this godforsaken place for four nights now, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to last the week. After being captured—bastards had knotted up his wings—he has been drugged, subdued, beaten. _Aw, look at the little birdy all caged up_ , one man had cackled, and Warren burnt himself on the electric cage while lunging at him. His captors smiled at him, fed him almost nothing, kicked him in the ribs, and called him Angel. _The mutant Angel_ , they cooed. _Sweet Angel, a pretty face, but_ oh _, look at how feisty he is, even though he’s helpless_.

His first night, they had put Warren in the cage with a man with no apparent mutation. _Two newcomers!_ the announcer yelled over his obnoxious mustache, and the crowd roared, chanting for fresh blood, fresh meat. Warren had looked at his opponent and wrapped his wings protectively around his body, unable to fight. He had killed before, but never like this, not for anyone else but himself. 

The other mutant reflected Warren’s expression and sentiment, it seemed, and it wasn’t long before the crowd was booing, angry at the lack of action. _It looks like our entertainment isn’t cooperating,_ Warren heard, and then watched as the mutant across from him crumpled, blood blooming from the shot to his chest.

Warren had screamed then, and collapsed when voltage shocked through his body from a taser. He woke up in a smaller cage than before, wings folded to fit. A few strained attempts at moving confirmed he was chained down: hands behind his back, ankles together and tethered to the floor. Worst had been the heavy metal ring, _collar_ , around his neck, keeping his head low to the ground. 

Warren had bitten back tears and glared when his captors visited. _You will be next if you don’t fight_ , they told him. He received no food or water that day, only a multiple kicks rattling the cage. Men laughed as they dribbled water into the dirt out of reach, laughed as they stuck a few daring fingers into the cage and stroked his cheeks, darting away from snapping teeth. _Look,_ they said. _He does have fight in him_. Ducking his head, Warren had bitten his bottom lip until it burned. Warren was going to kill them all.

Three fights per night after that, and Warren has made it to ten. He scratches the tenth tally mark with an arrogant twist of his wings, relishing in the approval it elicits. He has put on a good show, and has fallen into an easy pattern of flying, clawing, and maiming. Some fights were long, exhausting, and he throws a grin on his face and arms in the air to accept the cheers, because it’s the only way he gets to eat at night. The dirt and blood on his face feels heavier than it is, and he breathes heavily. He is so tired. Warren is really going to kill them all.

“Our next challenger comes directly from the Munich Circus!” the announcer yells. Warren feels sick to his stomach when he sees the box they carry his next opponent in. It’s even smaller than his own, and it’s wrapped in electrified wire. The announcer calls this mutant the Devil Nightcrawler, and when someone blue, with a pointed tail, rolls out of the box, Warren can see why.

He swings at him, just once to test the waters. Will this mutant fight or not? Will he have to kill someone going through the same as he is? Nightcrawler vanishes in a puff of smoke, and reappears a few feet away. Then again, he teleports, and again. Warren’s surprise quickly turns to dismay when Nightcrawler tries to teleport out of the cage and instead crashes straight into the electric fence. When he falls to the ground—smoking from either his mutation or the electrocution, Warren can’t tell—the crowd goes wild.

“Caution!” the announcer taunts. “High voltage! Sorry, mutants.” The way he says ‘mutants’ is condescending and grating, and Angel tries to shake off the way he shudders.

He swallows the bile in his throat and swings again, then flies up to meet Nightcrawler on the steel beam he teleported to. A few more repetitions of the swing and escape routine, and Angel can tell the guards are getting angry.

“Fight!” he shouts to his mutant opponent. “Or they’ll kill us both!" 

He wishes Nightcrawler was weak, so he could finish the fight fast, but with a mutation like teleportation, his captors will be expecting equal-footed combat, not massacre. He steels himself when he sees Nightcrawler snarl and is preparing to shield his body when Nightcrawler is instantly behind him, throttling his neck with his tail. Warren flutters off the ground, struggling, and then suddenly they are at the top of the cage and Warren is thrown. It happens so fast, and there’s no time to salvage himself.

Warren feels electricity crackling through his body, and his left wing burns as he scrapes down the cage wall. He smells something smoking and distantly wonders why the cage’s voltage is so high. He has certainly been thrown into it before. It hurts, and when Warren staggers to his feet and tries spreading his wings, the left doesn’t stretch all the way. It is mangled: grey and black and missing and he’s never going to fly again. How will he live like this? And then Warren realizes he won’t. _They’re going to kill me,_ he thinks. _I can’t fight, and they’re going to kill me._

The crowd is cheering for Nightcrawler, who just cowers away, apologizing. Warren doesn’t want to know what expression he’s making. He steps forward, and then the lights flicker, then shatter. Sparks erupt from all corners of the cage, and Warren watches as people scream and flee. Guards are yelling, firing shots, and in all the chaos, Warren realizes the cage is depowered. It takes two flaps to fly the normal distance of one, and tears prickle his eyes in pain. His right wing compensates for the left, but it’s agony, and when he rips off a panel of fence, Warren squeezes the metal hard enough for it to indent in his palms.

He’s going to kill these humans, all of them. Warren looks for the people who have broken him the past four days, made him kill for sport, made him beg for food and water. Most of them are gone, and he doesn’t see the mustache announcer anywhere. He’s going to kill them. Warren takes stock of his wing, battered and half-missing. Despair crawls up his throat, ready to strangle him. He wants to kill them, but he can’t fight like this. Warren folds his wing the best he can, knocks a guard out cold, and runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the beginning of my multi-chap XMA fix-it/development fic. Lemme know if my characterization strays anywhere, cause I'd like my characters to be be refined. 
> 
> I also really wish there wasn't a 10 year time skip between DOFP and XMA because how does that possibly make sense? But w/e. 
> 
> Here's Alex’s reappearance in Scott’s life explained, since we don’t get a lot of them together before Alex dies. I also thought it’d be cool if Scott has some ~opinions~ about human prejudice against mutants, Erik’s assassination attempt, etc. Also, bad boy Scott is my fav (his parents blame it on Alex). 
> 
> I think the horsemen are grossly underdeveloped, and so my boy Warren Worthingon III gets some captivity, torture, and hatred for humans. I also consider him losing his wing like anyone else losing a limb, and am very excited to go into that during the Metallica scene. 
> 
> Anyway, stay tuned! Next up is Erik, who gets his continuation from the previous installment, and Xavier’s mansion (so Charles and the children!). Thanks guys!!
> 
> COME HMU ON [TUMBLR](http://apartmented.tumblr.com/)! I want a ton of fandom friends, please say hello!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! but here is a relationship i think needed more time in the movie, between two characters who definitely needed more development

Alex has only been gone for two hours, but honestly, he’s not even surprised something has managed to be fucked up in his absence. When he walks through the garage door, cradling a carton of milk and a wheel of cheese, Alex’s easy mood slips away at the sight of his parents, talking lowly at the bottom of the stairs.

“Something a problem?” he calls, placing the groceries on the counter. 

When his mother looks at him with watery, worried, eyes, Alex’s eyebrows furrow, confused. “Oh, Alex,” she says. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She looks worn, and ducks her head when a tear spills onto her cheek. 

“Mom?” Alex asks, and when she just sighs shakily, “Dad, what’s going on?” 

“It’s Scott, son,” he says. “He’s, um—well, he’s manifested. His powers, _mutation_ , like you.” At the word, Alex’s mother’s shoulders begin trembling slightly. 

“What?” Alex says, trying to ignore his mother for now. He had long ago come to terms with the notion that she probably couldn't accept him one-hundred percent, but God, if it didn't hurt.

“He had an incident at school today, ran away and was found by the an officer down on 4th.” His father looks unbelievably tired, the wrinkles matching his expression as he explains, “He wasn’t willing to open his eyes, Alex. He—I don’t know if there’s something wrong with them, or if he can see, or what’s going on. He just ran upstairs when your mom opened the door, and he won’t talk to us. He—,”

“But he _told_ you? He told you that he had a mutation?” Alex asks, and his mother finally looks up, wiping her eyes.

“The first few times I knocked on his door, he didn’t answer, but I—But I started crying, I think, and then he told me that he ‘Saw red like Alex’s’. He said he was a mutant—shouted it really. But Scott hasn’t,” she looks at her husband briefly, touches his arm. “He hasn’t said anything to me or Chris past that.”

“Just yells to leave him alone,” Alex’s father adds. “I’ve tried what I can but I don’t want to upset him, not when he’s like this—when none of us know what’s going on, I mean.” 

Alex nods, then sighs. He looks up in the direction of Scott’s room and remembers the first time he manifested, when he was only twelve: the panic, the fear, the hating himself because suddenly his body didn’t feel like his anymore. “I guess we’re more alike than we thought,” he says stupidly, and immediately hopes it’s not true. No one deserves to go through what Alex did those years ago.

Alex’s mother sniffles. “I just—I never wanted this for him.” Alex turns to face her sharply, dread shooting through him, but she continues, “You’ve faced so much, Alex. So much prejudice, and jail, and fear. I thought when he passed twelve, and then thirteen, and then got older—I thought he’d be safe, but now…,” she swipes her cheeks with another sniff. “He’ll have to leave school, won’t he? He’ll have to leave everything: his friends, his school, _us_.”

“Scott’s wanted to get out of here for a long time now,” her husband says quietly, then turns to Alex. “But your mom’s right. We wanted to protect him from the discrimination of mutants, but we can't do anything for him. I think right now, you should be the one to talk to him.”

“Okay,” Alex nods. “Let me try.” And he makes his way upstairs, a mix of sympathy and dread on every step he takes.

He thinks of young Alex, of thirteen-year-old Alex and his first time manifesting, his first time running away and getting into a fight, his first time in juvenile detention, in solitary confinement. Then he thinks of his second time locked up, then his third, and his realization that he can’t hurt anyone behind bars. Fourteen-year-old Alex wondering what high school is like, looking at his parents' resignation across the visiting table, and asking for solitary when he breaks an inmate’s sternum by packing his mutation in with his punch. Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr looking at him like he’s something special, and Darwin playing foosball with him like that’s normal, and Darwin crumbling to dust, and Charles being shot but only crying after Erik leaves, and being deployed to Vietnam, and Mystique saving him, and Erik bringing a football stadium down onto the White House, and mutants being exposed, and wondering when he got home, battered and bruised and traumatized: _Will they accept me_?

Alex never wanted this for Scott, either.

He knocks on Scott’s door, and when there’s no response, he leans towards the opening side. “Scott?” he calls, then tacks on unnecessarily, “It’s me, Alex.”

It takes Scott a few moments to open the door, during which Alex hears some low thuds and curses. When Scott opens the door, his eyes are closed tight, wrinkles at the edges.

“Alex,” Scott begins, a tremble in his voice. Alex slowly places a hand on his shoulder, grimacing when Scott’s head sharply turns towards the sensation, surprised. 

“It’s okay, Scott. Come on, let’s talk.” He holds Scott’s upper arm. “Is this okay?” and at Scott’s nod, moves them towards Scott’s bed, nudging the door shut with his foot. “Can you tell me how you feel?” 

Scott’s hands are clasped tightly into fists, wrapped around his middle. The small, scared press of his shoulders doesn’t fill out his letterman like normal. Scott doesn’t look like himself at all. 

“What’s happening to me?” Scott exhales shakily. “I can’t turn it off." 

A lump of fear lodges itself in Alex’s throat. “What happens when you open your eyes?”

“It’s like yours. It’s like yours, but… beams. Lasers. Out of my eyes. It’s so _red_.”

Alex isn’t going to insult Scott by questioning his manifestation. Instead, he shifts backwards on the bed, and rests his back against the wall. Scott, listening and feeling the bed move, does the same a moment after.

“You’ve heard of Charles Xavier, haven’t you?” Scott nods, and Alex continues, “I want to tell you about how he saved my life.”

Scott turns sharply towards him, and Alex can’t help the small flinch he gives, highly aware of the power behind Scott’s eyes and that it's instinct to open one's eyes wide when surprised. “What?” Scott asks.

Alex nods, then says, “Yeah. Yeah, you know, before you were born, after I manifested, I was—I was always in a bad place. Fighting, running away. Mom and Dad didn’t know about my mutation—hell, they didn’t even know mutants existed. I was in solitary all the time in jail. Honestly, I—, I asked for it, because I was scared. Scared of hurting people, y’know? I was there when the Professor and Erik found me and taught me how to control it.” Alex thinks about Darwin, and Shaw, and Cuba, and pauses. 

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been silent until Scott says, “And then what happened?”

Alex sighs, brushes his hair out of his face. “Scott,” he says slowly. “I can’t say that being a mutant isn’t dangerous. Because it is, especially for you or me, when we’re powerful. And sometimes mutants get up to hairy things. I mean, you know what happened in D.C. with Erik and Raven, but—“

“Wait, ‘Erik’, like the _Magneto_ Erik?” Scott exclaims, incredulous. “Wait, _Magneto_ was the one who trained you? Alex, he tried to assassinate Nixon!”

Alex chuckles, and runs a hand through his hair again. “Yeah, he—he was nice, y’know? I don’t know what happened to him before D.C., but when I was with them, he took care of us. Mutants, that is. He didn’t like humans much, but the Professor was always there to cool that.”

“Jesus, Alex,” Scott laughs, loud and genuine, and _wow_ , Alex hadn’t realize how wound up he was until relief flooded through him. “You were friends with a _terrorist_.” 

“Yes, well, he did a lot of good, sometimes. And I don’t know what he’s been through exactly, but it was bad. Holocaust bad.” Alex looks at Scott, wishes they could make eye contact. “He was just trying to protect us. I couldn’t join him, but I understand it,” he finishes softy, almost a whisper.

Scott is facing the wall on the far side of the room, looking immovable and still. “I get it,” he says, equally soft, and there’s no tremor in his voice to say that he doesn’t.

They are silent for another minute or so, and then Alex says, “Would you be okay with going to the Professor’s? He has an Institute, Xavier’s School for Mutants. If we see him, he can help.”

Something in Scott must have changed during Alex’s story, because he doesn’t cower into himself at the thought of leaving home, familiarity. Alex can see acceptance bloom in Scott, like he knows now that good mutants aren’t the exception, but the norm. “Okay,” Scott says. “Let’s go.” 

Alex smiles, and it must show through in his voice, because Scott returns it slightly when he says, “Okay, yeah.” He gets up and looks around Scott’s room. “Hold on though, let’s get you something to put over your eyes. Um—ah, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Alex heads to his room down the hall, and digs through the medical kits he’s saved from his years in the force. He finds what he’s looking for with relative ease: a thick, gauzed strip of white cloth that hooks together in the back. It’s meant for compressing head injuries, and will probably help Scott feel more secure about not losing control.

“Here,” he says, when he returns to Scott’s, and hands him the bandage. “Wear it over your eyes. It won’t block the beam, but at least you’ll have something reminding you to keep ‘em closed.”

“Okay,” Scott says, clasping the hooks at the back of his head. “Don’t need a reminder to keep my eyes closed, though.” He laughs humorlessly, and sighs.

“I know,” Alex agrees. “But maybe it’ll help. Now, let’s pack you a bag.” Alex throws a bunch of Scott’s clothes into a large duffel bag. Scott’s wardrobe is messy, so he doesn’t bother coordinating anything. Scott wears mainly Polos with jeans anyway, so he doesn’t think it’ll matter much.

“Can you grab my red kicks?” Scott requests, and Alex smiles and obliges.

Alex slings Scott’s backpack over his shoulder when he’s done packing. After closing the duffel, he pulls Scott up and leads them downstairs.

“Oh, Scott,” their mother says, first thing she sees them. She rushes to the bottom of the stairs, then looks at Alex wildly when she sees the bandages over Scott’s eyes. Alex smiles and mouths _It’s okay_ to her.

Scott reaches out and pats her shoulder after a few tries. “It’s okay, Mom. Um, Alex is going to help me, and Professor Xavier is going to teach me how to be safe with this, I guess.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she says, and pulls Scott into a hug. He’s taller than her, bigger than her, but she seems to envelop him. “I love you, Scott. We’re proud of you for being so strong.”

 “Thanks, Mom,” Scott says, shakily. “I—,” he pauses, then repeats, “Thanks.”

“I need Dad to drive us to the Cleveland Airport,” Alex says then, feeling slightly rushed. He wants to arrive in New York before it gets dark, and it’s a three-hour flight to Westchester.

“Oh, yes, of course,” their father says, and nods to himself before grabbing the car keys.

“I’ll come too,” Alex’s mother says, patting Scott on the arm.

The car ride to Cleveland Hopkins Airport is short and quiet. Alex and Scott in the backseat don’t speak, and Alex watches Scott fidget silently, picking at his nails repeatedly.

When they reach the airport, Alex heads inside to buy tickets, leaving Scott to say his goodbyes to their parents. He’s lucky: there’s only one flight to Westchester County Airport today, and if they’d been an hour later, he would have had to drive from LaGuardia instead. Alex’s mother is teary-eyed when he returns with the tickets, and she pulls Scott into one more hug when she sees Alex join them. 

“Oh, you’ll be fine, Scott. Make sure to call!” 

“We’ll come visit you,” their father speaks up then, and Scott turns towards his voice. “We can do that, right?” 

It takes Alex a moment to realize he’s being addressed, and then he nods. “Oh, yeah, of course. I don’t know the policies, but I’m sure we can see each other. It’s not, y’know, a prison.”

A small but tense silence fills the air, during which Alex sees his mother look at him with pained eyes. He wishes he hadn’t said that last bit.

“I’ll see you soon, then,” Scott says, and smiles.

Alex can’t help but see the small tremble in Scott’s back, like he’s trying his best to stand up straight and deal with this, headstrong and face on, even if his eyes are closed. Alex is proud of him, but it really just makes him want to cry.

Alex deliberately forgets the one of the bags in the trunk, so once he’s situated Scott on a bench near baggage check-in, he runs back outside, to the waiting car. “He’s gonna be okay,” he tells his parents, and his mother sighs shakily.

“Thank you, son,” his father says. “We’re sorry we can’t do more. We wish we could, but… I’m afraid your mother and I don’t exactly understand how to help him." 

“I’m glad he has you,” his mother says, and smiles. “Do you need anything before you go? Lunch? I don’t think he’s eaten—,”

Alex shoots them an easy grin. “I’ll grab him something before we board, if he wants. Thanks, Mom.” He grabs the duffel bag and leaves, yelling, “Later!” over his shoulder with an easy grin.

Navigating Scott through the airport is a difficult task, and Alex forgets more than once that Scott can’t watch where he’s going. It’s more than just adjusting him to the right direction, Alex quickly learns. He has to watch Scott’s steps, everyone else’s steps, and his own. The bandage over Scott’s eyes—and Scott’s stumbling—seem to encourage people to give them a wide berth, but Scott still trips when the ground elevates at an angle Alex doesn’t even notice. He bumps his elbow on a guardrail twice. It’s honestly a miracle that Scott hasn’t accidentally opened his eyes at this point.

Alex buys a small sandwich from an airport vendor for Scott to eat later, because by the time they’ve boarded the flight, Scott is nearly dragging his feet, exhausted. Scott nods off soon after Alex finds them their seats, so Alex spends the three hours alternately staring blankly into the clouds and staring blankly into space.

It’s around 4PM when the plane begins its descent, and the change in altitude begins to wake Scott. He hears Scott rustling a little next to him, hears a groan of wakefulness, and _Oh. Oh no_. 

Alex slams his hand over Scott’s eyes as quickly as he can, sees Scott jerk to full wakefulness at the sudden jerk.

“Wha—?” Scott grunts.

He can feel Scott’s eyes flutter under his hand, but Alex presses down on his eyelids, and whispers frantically, “Scott, close your eyes. Don’t try to open them.”

It takes Scott a few moments to understand what Alex is saying, but when he does he breathes out heavily, shaking. “Oh, oh,” he says, and reaches up to cover his eyes on his own. 

Alex withdraws his hand and realizes that he’s breathing just as heavily as Scott. He should have thought this through. He should have thought about how dangerous it is to bring Scott on a flying aircraft, for God’s sake, what was he thinking? And now Scott was dealing with the notion that he had just almost killed everyone here in the air.

“It’s okay, Scott,” Alex says, swallowing his nerves. “It’s okay.”

Fortunately, they land only a few minutes later, because Scott isn’t replying and is shaking minutely. _Minor shock_ , Alex thinks, and wishes he had a blanket.

On solid ground, Alex sits Scott down in the terminal and wraps an arm around him. “It’s okay,” he repeats. “Nothing happened. We’re here now, we’re going to help you control it.” 

Despite Scott soon calming considerably, Alex decides it’s still best not to give him the sandwich he bought. He hopes the Professor has something in the kitchen for them to eat later. He’s starting to get hungry too. 

Alex rents a car, beige exterior and red interior, not that Scott can see it and care. It’s the same red as their mutation, which is a nice touch, at least. It’s a twenty-minute drive from the airport to Xavier’s, and they spend most of it in silence.

About ten minutes after they depart the airport, Scott shifts in his seat, and in Alex’s general direction. “Alex,” he hesitates. At Alex’s low hum of acknowledgement, he continues, softly, “Am I going to be blind?”

Alex almost brakes immediately, wanting to bring everything to a stop the way his mind has come to a screeching halt. _Oh, Scott_ , he thinks, heart sinking. “No,” he replies, even though he doesn’t know, he can’t be sure. Then he decides that Scott has dealt with enough bullshit today. “There’s a doctor there, he can honestly, just make anything happen. So if something does happen to your eyes—which I really hope won’t—he can fix it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Alex’s shoulders sag. “Name’s Hank, and he’s goddamn brilliant, y’know? It’s part of his mutation, I think.”

On a normal day, Scott would say _Must be nice_ with a sly grin. Today’s not a normal day, though, so Scott only nods silently.

The rest of ride is ten minutes of obsessing over whether to try to comfort Scott or not. By the time they’re pulling in the gates of Xavier’s, Alex hasn’t said a word either.

Scott slings his backpack onto his shoulder when Alex hands it to him, and Alex carries the duffel. He wraps his right arm around Scott’s shoulders. This time, they’re better at navigating unsteady terrain, and Alex gives Scott verbal directions. They’re moving slowly but steadily, and Scott is looking better than before, settling a little and regaining some of his sarcasm. 

“This place smells like an old… library, or museum,” Scott mutters when they step inside. It does—it’s an old mansion, and it looks like an old museum, too, but Alex only chuckles, leading Scott to the foyer stairs.

“Okay, three steps,” he says, and counts them. “One more, last one,” he says lowly. 

They make it down the stairs with no incident, and Alex is getting ready to congratulate himself on a navigation job well done when Scott walks straight into a girl with red hair, who drops her books.

 _Shit_ , Alex thinks, but then sees the girl reach her hand out. For a moment, he’s confused, then sees her books and papers float back to her arms. Alex chuckles. Of course she’d be telekinetic.

“Watch where you’re going,” she snaps, irritated.

“I can’t,” Scott fires back. He waves a hand in front of his face. Alex sighs, and turns to look around the place. The chandelier is gone: broken or removed. 

“Oh,” she huffs. “But you’re not blind.”

“What? How do you know that?” Scott asks. 

“I’m telepathic. I read minds,” she says, drawing Alex’s attention again. Telepathic and telekinetic? Charles has picked up a real gem with her.

Alex is half expecting an abrasive comment from Scott, but all he says is “Oh, okay.” He must have learned somewhere along the way not to be rude to girls.

Jean smirks a little, and turns to leave. “See you, Scott,” she calls. 

“Wait, I didn’t tell you my name!”

“No, you didn’t.” Alex can hear the smile in her voice, and snickers with a grin.  

“Alex Summers?” he hears, and turns. He recognizes the voice from somewhere, he thinks, but it’s only when he sees Hank that he puts them together.

“Hank McCoy?” he grins. Hank looks nearly the same. He has the same gawky glasses and short hair Alex remembers, but missing is the... everything. “Whoa, man. What happened to the big blue… furry you?” 

“Oh!” Hank looks down at himself, apparently self-conscious. “I keep it under control now.” 

Alex’s shoulders sag. Was Hank still hung up about his appearance twenty years later? He had really liked Hank’s Beast look. Alex doesn’t realize his feelings show in his expression until Hank shakes his head with an abashed grin, saying,

“It’s just for fine handling in the lab,” he gestures in a vague direction over his shoulder. “Can’t do microscopes with giant furry hands, so…,” and motions at his body, human.

“Good to hear,” Alex replies, relieved. He beckons at Scott, standing silently beside him. “This is my brother, Scott.”

“Hey, Scott. I’m Dr. Hank McCoy, one of the professors here.” He reaches a hand out to Scott, then realizes the problem and withdraws his hand sheepishly. Alex laughs silently.

“Hi, Dr. McCoy,” Scott says, and reaches his own hand out. This time, Hank is able to shake it. 

“We need to see the Professor,” Alex says, and Hank nods.

“He’s upstairs. C’mon.”

Hank begins leading them up the grand staircase, and Alex resumes leading Scott. The stairs take awhile at one at a time, but Hank is patient, still kind as ever. The hallway to Charles’ classroom is ornate and empty, just a long corridor lined with crown moulding. Alex can hear the Professor lecturing in the open foyer-like room.

“Let us now start fresh without remembrance, rather than live forward and backward at the same time,” Alex hears, and although he doesn’t recognize whatever philosophy this is, he agrees with the sentiment. Then Scott leans towards him and whispers,

“That’s T.H. White’s _The Once and Future King_. I read it in English this year.”

“Did you like it?” Alex asks. 

Scott shrugs. “It was interesting, I guess. That’s my favorite passage: ‘We cannot build the future by avenging the past.’”

 _Fitting_ , he thinks, _for Charles_ : Charles, who was so clearly defined only by his contrast to Erik, looking forward while Erik wore the past like he was buried in a grave already.

Before he can reply to Scott, they reach the class, and Charles turns in his wheelchair to face them, a smile lighting up his face. “Alex! It’s so good to see you! It’s been awhile.”

Alex clasps Charles’ hand and leans down for a quick hug. “You too, Charles.” It feels familiar to be back with Hank and Charles, and Alex feels more relaxed than he has all day. 

“You look well,” Charles says warmly, and Alex returns the sentiment. Charles isn’t much older than him, and while he’s certainly lost the shine of his youth, with his legs thin and unused, his smile is still bright and his eyes sharp, intelligent.

“This is my brother, Scott.” Alex claps Scott on the shoulder and sees Scott’s lips upturn only slightly. He’s restless: nervous and haggard, but still standing straight with the same cocksure attitude as always.

“Hello, Scott,” Charles greets. Charles eyes’ narrow briefly, like they do when he’s only shallowly dipping into someone’s mind. Charles, he knows, won’t look at anything specific without asking, and Alex guesses this is standard procedure to check for threats. Charles smiles after his pause, and says, “Welcome to the School for the Gifted.”

“It doesn’t feel like much of a gift,” Scott says, and Alex finds himself surprised at that bit of honesty. Maybe Scott feels more comfortable than Alex realizes.

“It never does at first,” Charles agrees easily. “But that will change, I believe. For now, I’d like you to know I’m a telepath." 

“Like the girl downstairs,” Scott says.

Charles chuckles. “I see you’ve met Jean. Yes, it’s like that, though I'm considerably older, I'm afraid. But firstly, I’d like you to let me into your mind, to view some of your memories, if you will. It’ll be easier for Hank and I to figure out what’s best for you if I’m able to see your manifestation.”

Scott hesitates, so Alex squeezes his shoulder in a way he hopes is reassuring. “It won’t hurt. He’s only asking so he’s not in your head against your permission.”

“Okay,” Scott nods. “How do I, y’know, let you in?”

“No need for that,” Charles replies. “You don’t have to do anything.” Charles’ fingers meet his temple, and Scott’s quiet gasp indicates Charles making the connection. In a few seconds, Charles returns to himself and smiles. “That’s quite a mutation you have, Scott. Much like your brother's. Let’s head to the shooting range, shall we?”

It takes a while to get Scott downstairs, outside, and to the shooting range, but when they arrive, Alex takes in the atmosphere of the place. Xavier’s is a large property, and everywhere he looks, there are mutant children playing games with their powers. Entire groups of mutants playing tag or catch, with literal sparks flying sometimes. It’s a fun, easy sight to smile at. Alex has missed this.

The redheaded girl from before—Jean, Alex remembers—already occupies one of the targets at the shooting range, and Alex watches her shoot a bullseye from a slack bow hold. Her form is sloppy at best, but her shot is perfect. It must be a telekinetic exercise. 

Charles is lecturing Scott on the usual basics: learning the extent of one’s power is fundamental in understanding and controlling it. “If you decide to stay here, Scott, you will learn to live in this world stably, and _unafraid_.”

Scott, who has been mainly silent through the walk, makes a small noise. Alex can’t tell whether it’s acknowledgement or dissent. Charles slows to a halt in his wheelchair, prompting Alex to stop Scott from walking as well. 

“Now,” Charles continues. “Why don’t you take your bandages off, and we’ll see what you can do. I understand you’ve only used your mutation once?”

Scott nods, and reaches up slowly, working on unclasping his bandage. When Charles tells Alex to face Scott towards the target, Alex flips down his sunglasses before doing so. It’s about to be incredibly bright.

“Ready?” he asks Scott, and pats his shoulder once more before moving away. “There’s a target right across the water. You’re facing it now.”

Scott nods jerkily, but when he removes the bandage strip, his eyes are firmly squeezed together. Alex feels low concern and sadness growing in him again. Seeing his baby brother experience the same fears that once crippled a younger him is not a good feeling.

“Open your eyes, Scott. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Charles’ voice is incredibly soothing when he wants it to be. The Professor is about to speak again when Scott does it, opens his eyes.

The burst of red shooting forth from Scott’s eyes is almost too much to look at, but combined with his experience with the red and his sunglasses, Alex doesn’t look away as Scott’s beams—as he called them—throw water high in the air, _obliterate_ the target, and move onto cutting the large oak behind it in two. _Christ_.

The children playing have all stopped, staring in shock at the simmering tree. Alex almost bursts out laughing, a weird relief flooding through him. Scott is so strong, and he even got the target, too. 

“You know,” Charles begins, the awe in his voice apparent. “That used to be my favorite tree when I was young. I used to swing on those branches.”

Alex and Hank exchange an amused look. The tree picks this moment to fall apart sideways, both halves hitting the ground with a loud crackle and thud.

“Charles’ favorite tree, huh,” Hank says, impressed. Alex grins.

“Does this mean I’m expelled?” Scott asks, uncertain. He’s put his bandages back on.

“On the contrary,” Charles replies. “That was brilliant. You’re enrolled.”

Scott’s answering smile is enough to undo the day’s worth of tension, and Alex claps him on the shoulder. “Good job, lil’ bro.”

“Alex, I could see,” Scott says abruptly, and Alex freezes. “When I opened my eyes, it was red, but I could see.” Like he’s afraid he might jinx it, Scott whispers, almost under his breath, “I’m not blind.” He's smiling. 

Alex nearly chokes on the startled, relieved laugh that bursts from him. He pulls Scott into a rough hug. _There is so much I wish I could protect you from_ , he thinks. “I told you,” he says out loud. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Scott softly agrees. “Thanks.”

“I can help with this, I think,” Hank speaks up. “I’ll have to take a look at it, but I think I could figure out a way to repress the beams, so Scott can open his eyes like normal.” At Alex’s wry look, he adds, “Safely! I’ll repress them safely! No side effects.” 

“Well, that’s reassuring,” comments Scott. Alex laughs.

“Come on,” he says, moving Scott in the direction of the mansion. “Let’s get you unpacked.”

Scott manages a small smile. Alex is sure he misses home. He remembers how it felt when he ran away, his first nights in jail. But Charles has a good thing going here, and things are looking up, even if Scott can’t see it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to update this four days ago, but got really busy with work, LOL. For the structure of the fic: there are some scenes I’m skipping form the movie because I feel they’re unnecessary given that 1) they were stupid, 2) everyone’s seen it, and 3) I’ve used some stuff from this movie in my Erik fic, the previous installment in series. 
> 
> I also wanted to do more than one character per chapter, but Alex deserves more than the movie gave him for sure, and I wanted to dig into his relationship with Scott. Being protective but also understanding that your younger sibling is growing up is something really important to me as an older sibling. So voila, it’s almost 5k of Alex moving Scott everywhere. 
> 
> Next is going to be Psylocke centric, so tg for the first female-focused section. 
> 
> Anyway, HMU on [tumblr](http://apartmented.tumblr.com/)! I am looking for fandom friends and would love if you talked to me!! 
> 
> See you soon!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay lol. work was busy, and i got the scenes out of order, so to get to psylocke this chapter, i had to include two scenes i wasn't planning on doing yet. but enjoy!!

The earthquake changes everything.

In hindsight, Hank will realize that it was Apocalypse who changed everything, but in this moment, being shaken awake by a frantic Jubilee and realizing that the house is groaning, Hank thinks _earthquake_ , and then he thinks _Jean_.

Jubilee is frowning, half-exhaustion, half-worry: “I think it’s Jean.” Hank nods assent.

He rolls out of bed almost immediately and messily shoves his glasses on, but Hank reaches full wakefulness only when he sees the younger children peeking out from their doors. _Charles_ , he throws loudly in his mind, and after a moment, feels Charles peek at the shallows of his thoughts.

Charles isn’t projecting his feelings, but he does say _Already on my way_ just a few seconds before he appears, his wheelchair slowing as he turns the corner into view of the children. “Back to bed!” he calls. “C’mon then kids, back to your rooms,” and slowly, the students turn away, their doors clicking shut one-by-one. Only then does Charles sigh heavily. 

Hank turns to Jubilee, who looks unsure of whether she was supposed to have left or not. He nods in the direction of the next hallway over, and she gives him a tired half-smile before leaving to her room. Then he turns to Jean’s closed door. It’s time to move Jean to the older students’ hallway, he thinks. Jean’s stuck with the room she’s had since she was eight, but now—now it’s worrying the other kids. He doesn’t think it’s healthy for Jean either, to be exposed to the rampant and uncontrolled thoughts of younger children.

He slowly opens the door for Charles, peeking in as Charles slides into the doorway. He first thing that hits him is the smell of sweat and fear, heightened adrenaline. It throws him back into memories of battles and guns in faces. The room is dark, which has never been a problem, so Hank can clearly see Jean writhing in bed, her sheets haphazardly kicked out from over her. Her hands are in tight fists, and she’s panting, groaning, crying out. It looks like someone is torturing her. 

“I’ve never seen her this bad,” he whispers.

Hank feels a thread of agreeing concern. Charles is staring intently at Jean, but it’s not just worry written on his face. There’s something contemplative too, almost of awe. Hank wonders briefly if he’s wrong, but no—he hasn’t been Charles near-personal assistant for twenty years with nothing to show for it. He knows how to read Charles, and _this_ , this is bordering on something _hungry_.

The lights in the hallway flicker a few times, and Hank realizes with a jolt that the wallpaper in Jean’s room is peeling up at the corners and… melting, crumbling to dust. It looks like she’s atomizing the décor. Hank hadn’t realized Jean had that kind of telekinetic power. Fascinating, really, and he makes a note to collect some of the minuscule shavings to study later.

Charles approaches the left side of Jean’s bed—smart, considering Jean is most likely to lash out with her right hand—and gets as close as he can in the wheelchair. He looks like he’s trying to enter Jean’s mind, wake her up from the inside. _Dangerous_ , he thinks, and is proven right moments later. Hank sees it the moment something goes wrong, because Charles’s eyebrows furrow, and he clasps the base of palms over his temples.

Hank hesitantly moves to come to Charles’ aid until the Charles says, “Jean.” and then repeats, louder, “Jean!” She doesn’t wake, and the curtains slam off their road and hit the ceiling before falling to the ground. “Jean!!” Charles yells again, and this time she does, gasping awake. 

Hank hears a door click open from the end of the hall, and he turns to see Klara watching nervously out of a cracked open door. Further, Kitty is already in the hallway, tightly clutching a blanket. She must have phased through the door. Hank sighs, and shoos them away with a small shake of his head. Klara shuts her door with a small snap, and Kitty opens the door manually this time.

By the time Hank’s attention is back on the Professor and Jean, they’ve already begun murmuring softly. Jean’s still breathing heavily though, so they couldn’t have said much.

“It felt so empty,” she says. “Like lights, people, who were all there just suddenly _not_.” Her bottom lip is quivering violently, and Jean blinks back a few tears. “I think I was feeling them die,” she gasps out. 

Charles looks at Jean with such immense empathy, and Hank is thrown back twenty years, to Cuba, to Charles recovering after the beach, when he looked at Hank and told him he knew what it felt like to die. Hank had never hated Erik more than in that moment, but now he doesn’t have someone to be angry at for Jean.

When Charles doesn’t say anything, Jean glares at him. There’s fire behind it despite—perhaps because of—her exhaustion, and she begs, desperately, “Do you know how that feels?”

If Hank’s suspicions are correct, Charles experienced some of Jean’s nightmare in the moments before she woke, so he reckons Charles knows exactly what Jean felt.

“I know,” Charles says. He doesn’t say anything more. Jean will know he’s telling the truth.

“It was different this time,” Jean confesses. She sounds scared.

Sometimes Jean picks up the nightmares of other minds in the school, and she jumbles them together to make something extra-horrifying. Hank can’t even imagine what that would be like. He’s grateful there aren’t many older, PTSD-stricken mutants around. Then he thinks of Alex, and wonders if his presence caused tonight’s nightmare. 

“In what ways was it different?” Charles asks.

There are a few tears on Jean’s face. “It wasn’t my powers this time. It was my mind, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t just the mind-reading or the telekinesis.” She pauses, looks at Charles, then at Hank. Hank wonders if she’s reading his thoughts, then dismisses the idea. She’s probably too tired. “It was like this… dark power was inside me. Like all that de—,” her voice breaks and she sniffles. “Like all that death was _mine_ ,” she finishes in a low whisper, so much so that Hank has to strain to hear it.

His blood runs cold. He can’t imagine Jean killing anyone, being involved in death. Hypothetically, he knows it’d be easy for her, but she’s so young and her smile is so bright when she’s happy. They really need to move her away from the younger mutants, some of who are scared of her. He really hopes someone’s opinion of Jean didn’t contribute to whatever she saw tonight.

“We’ll figure it out,” Charles says gently, but even Hank can tell that he’s worried.

“I thought I was getting better,” Jean says, frustrated. She clasps her hands tightly, wrinkling her sheets.

“You are, Jean. You will,” Charles assures, “You just have to be patient.” It feels like the wrong thing to say from where Hank is standing, but Charles is the telepath.

Jean evidently agrees with him, though. “No!” she shouts. “No, you don’t understand how it feels. I can’t close my eyes at night without being scared of what I’m going to see.” She stops then, breathes heavily. They are silent for a few moments. Then Jean whispers, almost like she’s confessing, “I felt people die, Professor.”

“Oh, Jean,” Charles says, just as softly. “It wasn’t so long ago that I was plagued by my own voices. By people’s fear, and pain, and dark secrets.” He sighs. “I know how it feels to be afraid of your own power.” 

Hank thinks of Charles’ breakdowns, when he traded his telepathy for his legs. Charles had been shattered, broken by what he had seen on the beach, in the hospital afterwards, in the world after Cuba. A well of sadness builds up in Hank and spreads to hang heavily around his heart.

“I’m afraid that one day I’m going to hurt someone,” Jean grimaces wryly, looking close to tears than before.

Charles shifts then: sets his feet on the ground, braces his hands, and moves to the perch on the side of the bed by Jean’s torso. “Jean, everyone fears what they don’t understand. But one day, you’ll understand yourself, and be able to control your mutation. You won’t be afraid then.” 

Jean closes her eyes tightly, but a tear spills from each. “I just don’t want—,” she cuts herself off to wipe angrily at her tears. “Don’t want—,”

“I know, my dear girl,” Charles says, and rubs her shoulder lightly. Jean shudders, and takes a few heaving breaths. “Now, lie back. Let me put you to sleep for the night.”

Jean shifts so her head is on her pillow, and closes her eyes obediently—trusting. Her breathing evens out a few seconds later, and Charles’ shoulders sag as he sighs. Hank approaches then, and helps Charles back into his wheelchair. They leave Jean’s room and check that the hallway is clear again before speaking.

“The shaking from earlier,” Hank begins. “You felt it?”

Charles nods. “You think Jean caused that?”

“I don’t know,” Hank says truthfully. “I thought, maybe, when I first woke up. But that had the magnitude of at least a weak earthquake, and her room wasn’t destroyed.”

“So she can’t be the epicenter.” 

Hank nods thoughtfully. “It’s not probable. But I have to look into it, find out what that really was.”

“But you think there’s a connection.” 

“Correlation doesn’t necessarily equal causation, Professor,” Hank smiles. “But I also don’t believe in coincidence.”

Charles looks wan and pale, but he manages a smile. “You’ll be in your lab then?” 

Hank nods. “And you, Charles, will be back in bed.” Charles looks ready to protest, but Hank cuts him off with a stern frown. “Whatever it is will still be there in the morning, Professor. It’s 4. You need your sleep.”

“So do you,” Charles grumbles, but he’s already begun moving in the direction of the teachers’ wing of the school.

Hank shakes his head to himself, and moves in the opposite direction, towards the elevator to his lab. “Goodnight then, Charles.”

He feels a small press of returned sentiment in his mind from Charles. Hank smiles lightly, before turning his mind to the task at hand. Tracking the epicenter of an earthquake wouldn’t take long, but something told him—call it animal instincts, if one had to—it wasn’t going to be so simple.

* * *

Erik wakes up every morning and remembers where he came from. He looks at Magda sleeping next to him, reaches out to feel Nina’s locket against her beating heart in the next room over. Then he thinks of the years behind him. He doesn’t think it will ever be painless, but the past cannot be overcome. Sometimes Erik feels like he’s simply stalling, that the past is rolling towards him. Today is not one of those days.

His mother would be proud, happy to see him like this. Erik doesn’t think he will ever be settled, but here, under the warm covers, he feels as close to calm as he can get. Erik rolls out of bed—let it never be said that his past hadn’t generated an iron will, because honestly, that’s what it takes—and dresses slowly, lazily. 

Magda is awake by the time Erik is ready, but she watches sleepily from the bed. When Erik leans down to kiss her _Good morning, see you later,_ she pulls the sheets over her neck. 

“You’re cold,” she grumbles with a mock frown, which makes him smile helplessly. 

“And you’re like the sun,” he says. Magda breaks into a quiet, sleepy grin.

“You want me to make you lunch?”

“I’ll take what’s left from dinner.”

“Okay,” her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Have a good day.” 

Erik feels a rush of affection, and he kisses her on the cheek. “See you later.” 

He checks on Nina before he leaves, just peeking into her room to see her curled on her side under the covers. Her hair is a mess, sprawled across her pillow. Erik closes the door, making sure to keep the metal hinges from squeaking, and goes to work. 

There’s a little grey in the skies, and while the clouds look too thin for substantial rain, the workers’ moods seem to reflect the dull weather. Most of the men are quiet, simply going through the usual motions of prep, and Erik prepares himself for a quieter-than-normal day.

That’s when one of the few immigrant workers, Callum, walks in, yelling about Dundee United becoming the kings of Scotland. It takes Erik a moment—specifically the mention of the Scottish Premiere League—to realize Callum is talking about football, and he joins in the supportive echo of laughter and cheers and claps on the back. It turns into a good day quickly.

The earthquake changes everything.

The first vibration is small, but it’s followed by a larger tremor that sounds like thunder when it rattles all their equipment around. He sees the cable Milosz is working on snap, and Erik’s hand is stretched out before he can think. The metal vat rolls onto the ground at Milosz’s side instead of on top of him, and Erik freezes in shock.

He retracts his hand quickly, getting it back on the machine, but the damage is done. Chancing a look around, he sees two men who look away as soon as he glances in their direction. _No_ , he thinks. _No, please. Please don’t turn me in_ , he begs. _Not when I finally have this._

But even as he hopes, he knows it’s too late. He will never feel settled here again. Here is how the past lives: it watches you from behind, taps you on the shoulder once in a while. Sometimes it waves and helps you, and sometimes it shoots you in the back. The past flows at Erik’s ankles like a shallow river, a current threatening to rip his feet out from under him. Here is the past now—slow and steady as it wins the race. It has tackled Erik from behind, throwing from his lungs the very air he had recovered by resting. He is caught now. He should not have stopped. 

The rest of the day is stressful and quiet. The men are shaken from Milosz’s near-accident, but everyone eats despite their empty appetites. Erik chews monotonously on last night’s dinner, dread filling in his stomach instead. No one has confronted him, but he’s increasingly aware of betrayed glances. One of the men who saw him has undoubtedly told his coworkers. It’s more than two men who stare at him when they think Erik isn’t watching. 

Erik contemplates killing them. He knows he could silence them forever. It would be so easy—they work in a metal facility. He could bring the entire place down on their heads, call it an accident caused by the earthquake, and walk away unscratched. Then he thinks of their wives and children. The entire town of Pruszków would wear black, cursing Magda for still having her husband. He decides against his old violence; there’s no need to welcome the past with open arms. He knows his family needs to leave tonight, and can’t decide if that’s running towards or away from his past.

Erik is driving home, tapping his finger along the wheel anxiously when he feels Charles flitter into his mind. The first thing he feels is apprehension—he doesn’t believe in coincidences. There has to be a reason Charles is reaching out after more than half a year on the day Erik revealed himself. Could the news have spread to America so quickly? It’s irrational and he knows it. Erik grips the wheel tighter.

Concern flows over from Charles, and then Erik feels his mind relax slowly as Charles streams calmness into him.

“What’s wrong?” Charles begins. 

“Charles,” Erik deflects. He keeps driving. He needs to get home. Charles has probably already figured it out from Erik’s surface thoughts, anyway. “Why are you here?” 

“I was worried,” Charles answers frankly. He must sense from Erik that he’s not in the mood to dance around each other. 

“Because of the earthquake? You heard about that? It wasn’t a big one.”

“Oh, good,” Charles feels relieved. “I was concerned it would be stronger for you since you were closer.”

“Closer?”

“The epicenter of that earthquake was in Cairo, I’m afraid.”

“What? Charles, wait, Cairo?” Erik slows down, focuses on Charles a little more. “That’s not possible.” 

“You of all people should know nothing’s impossible, my friend.” Charles sounds wry, even without the emotion he pushes through with the words. 

“You think it was a mutant?”

“We felt this—can you even call it an earthquake?—even here in New York. I don’t know of anything else that could cause be so powerful.” 

Erik is silent for a few moments. “Have you looked into it?” 

“There was a man near the epicenter, nearly dead, crushed by rock and rubble. He was part of some—I suppose it was a cult of some sort. They were trying to raise a fallen God, I believe, although I didn’t catch a name, just worship and awe.”

“And you think they succeeded?”

“I don’t suppose you can think of a better explanation,” Charles sighs.

“There’s more,” Erik states. It’s not a question. Charles is holding something back. 

Charles sends him a burst of rolling-of-eyes and grudging compliance. “I don’t want you to do anything reckless.” 

Erik has to crack a smile at that. “Oh, Charles. When have I ever?”

“I mean it, Erik,” Charles says, sobering him up. “I felt a mind there, a mutant. _The_ mutant, I suppose. He’s not normal. I couldn’t read him, but his mutation—it’s… layered. Like he’s many at once.”

“Many mutants?”

Charles makes a noise of affirmation. “Many minds pressed into one. Although I don’t quite understand how it’s possible. It’s the first I’ve seen of this. I can’t help but think it’s some experiment.”

Erik feels rage build up at the thought. A hybrid mutant, made more powerful by reducing them to test subjects. “So he’s powerful?”

“More than you can imagine,” Charles agrees. “And I only skimmed the surface.”   

“Careful there, Charles. He could be telepathic.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty, I’m afraid. I don’t, however, believe he noticed my presence.”

Erik’s house comes into view then, and he pulls into his driveway messily. “Charles, I’ve got to go. I have to—,” he sends the day’s events in a flurry of impressions, images, feelings: mainly fear. 

“I’m sorry, dear one,” Charles says. He sends an idea to Erik: Nina at Xavier’s, Magda their first human, Erik teaching and seeing Klara again. “Will you come?” 

Erik grabs his bag from the car, and slams the door shut. He’s incredibly tempted to agree to Charles’ offer. “If we can. The States are…difficult, to say the least.”

“You’re right,” Charles acquiesces. “Until next time, then, Erik.”

“Yes,” Erik says distractedly. “Yes, see you, Charles.” Erik is reaching out with his senses, feeling for Magda and Nina. Magda is on the couch, reading quietly. Nina is—Nina’s locket is on the ground outside, by the well, but she’s not attached to it. _She’s probably just dropped it_ , Erik rationalizes. But it does nothing to settle his nerves. He will protect them. He will. 

He feels a pang of something from Charles then. It’s something negative, but it does not feel like anger, or jealousy, or hurt. Before he can ask, Charles disappears from his mind. If it had been any other day, Erik would have spent the evening trying not to think about it and wondering if Charles would mind if Erik called the school via phone. Today, however, he has other things to do. Magda’s warm happiness falls when she sees his expression.

That is the last time he will see her smile, but Erik doesn’t know this yet.

* * *

Charles feels Erik spanning his senses over the house and the subsequent protectiveness. Charles sees Nina and Magda the way Erik sees them. Erik is comfortable with them, in a way that’s similar to the emotions Erik had felt all those years ago at the mansion. He feels a sudden pang of loneliness, so much so that it startles him, like a knife stabbing outwards, from heart to ribs. The feeling floods across to Erik, and though Charles reels it back in as quickly as he can, he notices confused concern that means some of the sentiment has reached Erik’s mind. Charles pulls out of Erik’s mind as swiftly as his panic allows, which is, quite honestly, very fast. He’s cut the connection before the question he could feel budding in Erik’s mind even fully forms.  

Charles sits in Cerebro, breathing heavily as he calms. It’s not that he is jealous of Erik, or Magda for having Erik. Especially not now that Erik has been exposed. Charles doesn’t even know if he’d be able to live with Erik if he returned now. For all their chemistry, many conversations devolved into bitter arguments. But despite his rationale, as Charles listens to the low hum of Cerebro’s power, he’s reminded of Erik once again. The loneliness Charles tried to shut away now fills him, rising in his chest. It feels like tears, and sadness, and mourning. Charles is familiar enough with how those emotions feel.

Vaguely, Charles is aware of Hank calling his name, and he snaps back to reality just as Hank lays a hand on his shoulder to shake him. “Yes, yes, sorry,” he says, and Hank looks at him with brief concern. 

“Is everything alright, Professor?” he asks. “Is it the earthquake?” 

Charles shakes his head. “No—Well, yes, but no. It’s Erik. He might be in trouble.”

Hank’s eyes widen. “What kind? He can handle it, right?”

Charles nods. “He’ll be fine.” Hank looks satisfied, but Charles can’t shake the vibes he got from Pruszków when he was connected to Erik: deceit, concern, determination, and hatred. 

“What about the earthquake?” Hank breaks him out of his thoughts. He's shutting down Cerebro, messing with a few switches, and Charles rolls himself out of the way. 

“You were right about the epicenter. It looks like some sort of ritual gone wrong. A group was trying to wake a God, as the mind I read called it.” 

“And they did?” Hank turns to him, incredulous.

Charles grimaces. “Certainly looks it. There was a mutant in Cairo, too, but more powerful than I’ve ever felt before.”

“More powerful than Jean?” 

That gives Charles pause. He tries to compare what he felt to Jean’s overwhelming presence. His realization fills him with dread. He really hopes whoever this mutant is—whatever it is—isn’t an enemy. “Yes,” he exhales shakily. “He was… limitless. And I didn’t even dig into him.” 

“Do you know who he was?” 

Charles shakes his head. “But I saw a memory of him waking. There was a woman there, running. I think it was—I’m rather quite sure, actually, that it was Moira.” 

Hank squints at him and tries to figure out if Charles is lying. “Moira? Come on, Charles, it’s been twenty years. She probably looks totally different. Hell, she probably doesn’t even work field anymore.”

Charles shakes his head. “She looks the same. And, no, she hasn’t retired yet.” 

Hank’s mouth flattens. “And you know this how?”

“I’ve checked in on her once or twice,” Charles admits. “Just to make sure that… she’s alright. Especially after mutants were exposed.”

Hank’s frown deepens, but when Charles skims his thoughts, it’s due to thought, not disapproval. Charles also picks up that Hank can read the guilt laying beneath all his thoughts of Moira. 

“Are you going to go see her then? Ask her about Cairo?” Hank asks. 

Charles confirms with a low _mhm_. He begins moving towards the entrance of Cerebro, and Hank follows at his side. “I’ll take Alex, I think. Someone needs to hold down the fort here.” 

Hank nods. “It’ll give Scott some time to get used to the kids, too.”

“I’ll leave immediately then. Alex is just waking up.”

Hank shoots Charles an amused look, and Cerebro says “Goodbye, Professor Xavier” when they exit.

* * *

The earthquake changes nothing. 

Caliban and the other workers glance nervously at the ceiling for a moment, but nothing falls save some dust. Elizabeth glances up just to make sure it’s not an intruder. Work resumes as normal.

It’s been a quiet night. They’ve had five passport seekers and seven information seekers. All of it is mundane, and none of the information stands out as particularly important. Elizabeth makes it a point to remember the most interesting—“Kurt Wagner was sold by the Berlin Circus” and 50 German Marks in exchange for an address that Caliban scrawls on a piece of scrap paper. Must be an important address.

It’s almost 4 AM when, lo and behold, who would walk in but Raven Darkholme. Elizabeth doesn’t sit up in interest, but it’s a close thing. The entire place goes on subtle high alert. Raven is a frequent customer, but high-profile clients tend to attract trouble. Raven is trailed by a blue devil-looking mutant who nervously fiddles his fingers while Raven approaches Caliban’s counter.

“Ah, Mystique. It is nice to see you, even if it is not your face,” Caliban hails.

Elizabeth watches Raven’s companion, but he shows no shock at her name. He must know she’s Mystique, then. Elizabeth doesn’t know why Raven sticks with the same human look. Even if most humans recognize her only when she’s blue, the hot blonde girl get-up is well known amongst mutant circles. For someone who can change her appearance entirely, Raven has somehow achieved making hiding difficult. 

Raven cuts to the chase without greeting. She dumps a roll of marks on the counter and says, “Papers and passage for one.”

Caliban busies himself in the shelves. “And may Caliban ask where your friend is going?” 

Elizabeth watches Raven’s companion get his picture taken. He seems naïve, and isn’t cowering not because of confidence, but of obliviousness. Raven glances at the blue devil over her shoulder, then shrugs. “I saved his life, that’s it. What he does with it is up to him.” 

“You won’t even point him to your brother’s school?” Caliban smiles wide. When he speaks to Raven, it sounds disconcertingly like a snake slithering. 

Raven glares. “I’m not—,” 

But Caliban cuts her off and _tsks_ , “No matter what you look like, Caliban knows who you are.” He pauses, then says, “Mystique.”

Raven takes the ticket Caliban hands her, and crosses her arms when he goes back to digging through the shelves. Elizabeth smiles inwardly. Raven’s inability to be comfortable in her own skin never fails to amuse her.

“Don’t push me,” Raven growls. “Why don’t you ask your girls what’ll happen if you keep it up."

Everyone knows this is an empty threat, Elizabeth included. And yet, she cannot help but speak up, her face serious despite how amusing ruffling Raven’s crimped hair is. “What’ll happen?” she asks. Raven shoots her an annoyed look. Caliban catches her eye over Raven’s shoulder and giggles silently.

Caliban turns around and gives Raven a few folded papers. “Psylocke gets a little jealous,” he says. Raven is looking down, flicking through the papers, so Elizabeth rolls her eyes at Caliban. “But remember,” he continues. “ _Everything_ worth knowing about mutants, Caliban knows.” 

His eyes shift to the blue devil standing idly by the stairs. Elizabeth, too, glances at Raven’s companion, who is occupying himself with straightening his jacket and hair. It’s hard to tell in the low light, but his blue seems almost identical to Raven in her real form. _Oh_ , she thinks. _Could it be_? 

Raven looks up from the papers dubiously. “You have something important?”

Caliban grins, and rocks backwards, an innocent smile on his lips. “Since Caliban likes you so much—,”

“Since Caliban likes money,” Raven interrupts. Elizabeth smothers a laugh.

“Since Caliban likes _you_ so much” Caliban emphasizes, and Elizabeth hears Raven huff. “He wants to give you some free information.”

“Nothing’s free, Caliban,” Raven says dryly.

Caliban leans forward, almost across the counter, and stage-whispers low enough for privacy but loud enough for Elizabeth to hear, “Ah, But you’ve paid me in full! A nice peek at the son of the great Mystique is worth much.” 

Raven’s shocked “What?” coincides with Elizabeth’s grim satisfaction at being right.

Information travels fast in the mutant underground. Elizabeth hadn’t been with Caliban some twenty years ago, when she heard that Mystique-the-shape-shifter was pregnant, but mercenaries were in the business of learning secrets and trading them when convenient. A job gone wrong had led to Elizabeth pinning a mutant to brick wall with her psionic sword through his hand. He had begged then, and offered both the tidbit and where he had heard it: Caliban’s. Elizabeth didn’t join Caliban for another ten years after, but many bits of information she heard over the years could be tracked to his den.

Elizabeth tenses when Raven places her hands on the counter, curled into fists, and leans into Caliban’s face. “You’re lying,” she whispers, looking furious.

Caliban _tuts_ lowly and moves out of Raven’s reach. “Look at him, Mystique. Looks quite a bit like his father, wouldn’t you say?” 

Raven takes a long look at the blue devil. Elizabeth watches as her lips turn downwards almost imperceptibly and then flatten into a hard line. Turning again, Raven glares at Caliban and snaps, “What’s your information?” 

“News of an old friend of yours,” Caliban answers. “From when you had friends, Miss Loner Mystique.” 

“Just answer me,” Raven growls. Elizabeth fiddles with the hilt of her katana. She won’t have to use it, she knows, but just in case. It would be fun to pull Raven apart. 

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Caliban declares, and Elizabeth watches dread fill Raven’s expression. “One of the psychics picked up a flash of him last evening. Confirmation came in the night. It seems he’s angry, grieving. There’s a line of dead bodies where the emotion was strongest.” 

“You’re saying he killed them,” Raven says, not a question.

“I’m saying,” Caliban replies, his wide eyes sparkling with interest. “That perhaps a little checking-in is in order, yes? It will be on the news soon. But Caliban has given you a head start.”

Raven grits her teeth and breathes heavily for a few seconds, a look of uncertainty twisting her lips. Then she turns, and without a glance at Elizabeth, stalks towards the exit. She hesitates only slightly before approaching the blue devil.

“What’s your range? For teleportation,” she asks, gentle despite her tense shoulders.

“A-As far as I can see. Or if I’ve been there before,” the blue devil says. Raven nods absently, and while she looks at the blue devil like he’s about to make her cry, her expression is resolute.

“Come with me, Crawler,” she says. Elizabeth recognizes the subtle choke in her voice as the same as someone faced with a loved one right before dying.

Raven pulls him up by his jacket and heads for the exit. The blue devil—what kind of name was Crawler?—stumbles after her. “Actually, it’s Nightcrawler,” he corrects. Raven opens the door and as they slip into the night, Elizabeth hears, “And my real name is Kurt Wagner.”

Elizabeth smirks to herself. Kurt Wagner, formerly of the Berlin Circus, is Mystique’s son. The father probably has to do with the tail. Magneto has resurfaced after ten years via bloodbath. Tonight has been proved rather interesting. Elizabeth is sure someone will pay well for her information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not going to write magda and nina's death because there was so much wrong with that scene, i can't fix it without going entirely off script and that's too much trouble. 
> 
> if i was to change their deaths, i would address:  
> > the man shoots them on purpose  
> > different arrows, perhaps from two different people  
> > erik doesn't kill the men with nina's locket because they've removed her locket before taking her hostage  
> > erik always carries metal on him, and kills them with that
> 
> i also realized that the timings in the movie make NO SENSE. it's daylight in egypt to wake up apocalypse, but it's night in berlin where raven is saving nightcrawler. S. M. H. 
> 
> also, i call psylocke 'elizabeth' instead of 'betsy' cause i think that most ppl refer to themselves as their full first names, not nicknames. i think. i don't have a nicknameable first name>>
> 
> anyway, hmu on [tumblr](http://apartmented.tumblr.com/) if u wanna be my fandom friend! thanks for the support y'all! 
> 
> i'm gonna do better with updating lol, i hope to have the next one out by saturday!


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